


The Ghost of You

by causalsilence (theaccidentalhipster)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Afterlife, Coma, Death, Hope, Love, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-31
Updated: 2011-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-19 23:24:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/206353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theaccidentalhipster/pseuds/causalsilence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John's untimely death Sherlock is left to pick up the pieces of his broken heart, failing miserably to do so he attempts to join John in the afterlife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Of Memories and Suicide

The Ghost Of You

Sherlock Holmes was not crying. He defiantly wasn’t, he said to himself as tears began to drip down his face. Stop it you ridiculous man! He chastised himself, squeezing his eyes shut. John’s face appeared before his eyes, his mouth calling his name.

“Sherlock?” that desperate, questioning, breathless, whisper, the final thing that had escaped his best friend’s lips, before his eyes had gone blank, lifeless, dead.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, the bloodied and bruised form of John seared into his mind, as Sherlock pounded on his heart, desperately trying to restart it. Another single tear dripped onto the photo of the two of them from Sherlock’s eyes. He wiped it away with his thumb, his eyes locked on his flatmate’s smiling face.

“John... JOHN!” his own voice echoed in his head, screaming the name that he wanted to keep screaming to the walls of 221b. He had for days after his death, Mrs Hudson with him, the woman’s fragile arms wrapped around his thin and still coated shoulders, her face pressing into the back of his neck, tears dripping down the smooth skin there, her whimpered cries of the same name providing a perfect echo of Sherlock’s desperate screams.  
Then suddenly she’d stopped, her cries ceased, as did the shaking of her tiny but strong arms. Then she disappeared in a puff of tea and face powder, the only thing remaining that even suggested her presence had been there being the lukewarm tea and the tears, cold and wet on Sherlock’s skin.  
He snuffled, wiping his puffed, red eyes on the back of his sleeve, and getting slowly to his feet. His feet, warm from being folded underneath his poised body, screamed in alarm as his skin touched the cold, wooden flooring of John’s room. His eyes blinked, his feet moving automatically into the familiar yet foreign room, void of any sign of life – of John. His eyes focused on John’s desk, the laptop upon it powerless, dusty and untouched for months.  
A memory, one that should have been long deleted passed into his mind, John crouching over his laptop, typing in his ridiculously slow way of his, cup of tea in one hand hindering his rate even more. But Sherlock had been focused on his feet, nothing special, just feet, covered by his navy blue stripy socks (Sherlock had often wondered if everything he wore was stripy), wriggling on their own accord. John had spun in his seat nearly dropping his tea in alarm, as he’d noticed Sherlock’s presence.

“Sherlock, what the hell do you think you’re doing? Don’t sneak up on me like that!” he’d half laughed/half shouted. Sherlock had merely shrugged, crossing the room and capturing John’s lips in his. One of the many times that he’d silenced John’s incessant babbling with his own lips. John had groaned his body immediately tensing beside Sherlock’s, gently caressing Sherlock’s face before pulling him with intention towards the bed. They’d spent the rest of the night, in each other’s arms, the still tanned and worn skin of John, contrasting beautifully with Sherlock’s smooth, ice white skin. They remained looking, simply looking at one another for hours after until John finally fell into a sleep, his arm wrapped around Sherlock’s waist, hooking them together in the way that he always did.

His eyes flashed to the bed in question, another memory creeping to the surface. John had crashed through the doors to his room, Sherlock in his arms, half complaining of the bumpy ride that John had given him and half because his coat was soaking from the downpour that they’d gotten caught in, causing his twisted ankle to ache painfully below him. He was practically dropped on the bed- John quickly taking his sodden coat from him, dropping the object to the floor with a wet squelch.

“You idiot Sherlock- you utter idiot! You jumped out in front of a car, you jumped out in front of a car driven by a suspect ,who was not going to stop, he could have killed you, you fucking idiot Sherlock, what the hell would I have done if he had killed you?!” John ranted, tears flying from his eyes in sadness and frustration. Sherlock leant forward, ignoring the pain that stretched through the sprained, muscles in his ankle, grasping John’s contorted face in his hands.

“John” he whispered, holding his friends shaking form still. John batted him away, his eyes furious, before softening as he saw the hurt look on Sherlock’s face. He stilled, breathing heavily.

“Please don’t do that again Sherlock, you frightened me half to death, when you were just lying in the road, I thought he’d- “he broke off. Sherlock clutched his hand, rubbing circles into the top of it. John leant against his throat, small sobs echoing through his body and into Sherlock’s.  
John’s face lifted after a few moments, causing Sherlock’s piercing eyes and features to look down at him in confusion and sadness. In a movement smaller than a twitch, he raised his face and gently pressed his soft, warm, lips against Sherlock’s cold chapped ones. Sherlock started in surprise, causing John too hastily pull away.

“Shit- Sherlock... I’m sorry, you just, I mean- you scared me today” he stammered as Sherlock stared at him perplexed. There was a moment’s awkward silence as Sherlock realized what John had just done.

“You- you- kissed me” he whispered. John whined, holding his head in his hands.

“I know- I know, my body just sort of took over my brain for a moment” he groaned. Sherlock frowned.

“You’re bi-sexual?”Was the only thing his brain could ask. John’s face shot upwards.

“Yes...- really, that’s all your going to say or do. You’re not going to punch me or tear me down with a sarcastic retor- “his babbling was cut off by Sherlock’s lips on his.

“Hmmmmmnnnnggg?” John moaned, the pitch rising into yet another whine as Sherlock pulled away, gently kissing his jaw-line.  
“You talk too much John” he murmured against the soft skin there. John snorted, before it morphed into a moan, as Sherlock’s tongue brushed against his pulse point.

“You can talk...” he muttered” causing Sherlock to chuckle his deep laugh as he captured John’s lips with his again.

Sherlock sat down on the bed, still thinking about their first, second and third kiss. He ran a hand through his hair before lying on the bed where he should have been with John beside him. The pillow was cold, sanitized and cleaned from where his dear Watson had bled out beneath him. Sherlock had screamed his name, the blood from John’s heart seeping through his fingertips, the man’s soft and gentle hands contorted into a claw as he grasped to Sherlock’s similarly blood-stained jacket.

His lover had whispered his name one final time before his chest had taken one rattled breath and John had ceased to live, his eyes going dark and lifeless. Sherlock had clung to his body, soaking his still warm blood into his clothes and smearing it across his cheek where he held the body to his face, burying himself in John’s smell beneath all that tinged metallic blood. It was the last time he’d seen John, before Lestrade had run in dragging the howling, detective from his flatmates body. John had been sent to his family, Sherlock hadn’t attended the funeral not bearing to see the coffin with John’s picture on moving slower and slower into the crematorium.

Sherlock smoothed the cool metal barrel of John’s gun, the gun that had been misplaced in the murder inquiry, the gun that John’s killer had turned on the two of them as they’d chased up the stairs into John’s bedroom. The gun that fired the bullet that John had taken for Sherlock, his chest bucking as the bullet struck him in the heart.

Sherlock noted the cool sweep of metal before moving the gun to his the side of his head. A single tear splashed onto his cheek and he pulled the trigger.


	2. Of Memories and Floating

Memories. So many memories swirled in the bleak, grey darkness that the man presumed was death. Faces, names, simple touches infiltrated his mind as he swirled in and out of this- place.

Memories, so many more memories of the man his non-beating heart recognized as, picking up speed as their lips met in a swirling mass of grey, blue and white, leaving the man grasping at the pictures, floundering in the emotions of his own shutting mind.

He floated, he seemed to float for months on end, lying backwards in the sea of swirls, his eyes unblinking for the most part, fearing what new memories would appear if he did. For it wasn’t just good memories that appeared from the inky recesses of his mind.

A cruel face, snake-like in appearance taunted him from the depts... Pushing the his man forward, the doubt he’d experienced for a split second when he’d begun to speak, the soaring of his heart when he’d revealed the bomb, the immediate sinking when he realized that he could lose him then and there. The realization that he was in fact in love with this man always had and always will. These bad memories continued in this fashion, the capture of this man, the man saving him, the man shooting someone in the chest, the man being shot...

The return of this memory was like a slap in the face. John. A sharp electric shock seemed to run through his body at the name. His name echoed from the memory as he watched his own lips form the man’s name in urgent whispers. Yes, John, that was the man’s name, the one he loved, the man who saved him- oh so many times, the one who- died for him.

Another sharp electric shock. Dead. This John- was dead. He died for him. Threw himself in front of the gun to protect him. He was a monster, should have protected John, could have saved him, and shouldn’t have died.

Pain physical pain shot through him, emotional tinged beneath it. Someone was calling to him- it blurred and hissed as though his brain didn’t want to recognise his own name.

S- she- sh- Sherl- Sherlock. Another painful crack of electricity cracked through his ravaged mind like lightning. Sherlock... SHERLOCK. His name was Sherlock. The voice was calling to him, calling him deeper and deeper into the blackness. It consumed him.

...

He surfaced the brilliant white surroundings such a strange contrast to the swirling masses of grey that had surrounded him before. He blinked taking it in, before focusing on a figure descending from the brilliance, the light from some unseen source reflecting in the blond hairs on his head, and reflected in the smile he was sending to Sherlock.

“John?” he whispered, disbelievingly. John’s smile widened and for a moment it seemed that John would run towards him, run back into his arms and never let go. The smile dropped slightly as he looked behind him, towards the seemingly celestial light, the unseen bonds that were pulling him back and Sherlock in.

Getting unsteadily to his feet, Sherlock took a minute step towards John. His dead lovers face snapped to him, anger and pain in his face. He ran forward, hissing as the bonds snapped tighter around him, stopping him from going further. His eyes met Sherlock’s as the detective took another tentative step.

It seemed enough to allow John to break through, rushing to Sherlock and push him away from the transfixing and beautiful golden light that was whispering his name, promising forever with John, forever and ever. Sherlock’s eyes snapped to him, meeting the soft brown eyes of John. His name escaped his lips in a hushed whisper, a question mark apparent on the end of it.  
John’s hand reached up and gently ran his finger-tips against Sherlock’s cheek-bones in the way that he’d done so many times when he was alive. They brushed downwards over his lips, lingering there for a second before resting on his chest. Sherlock watched in wonderment as John heaved a sigh of relief, the dead man inflating and gasping as he had in life.  
“Your heart’s still beating Sherlock- it’s not too late. Go back” he whispered, his hand back on the detective’s face, cherishing his last chance to look at him. Sherlock whimpered, clutching to John like a drowning man.

“No- I’m not leaving, you, I’m not leaving you again.” He stammered, fresh tears prickling at drying eyes. John put his hands on his chest over Sherlock’s heart, placing his head in between his palms. For a moment Sherlock could have sworn he felt John’s breath rush over his chest, but his thought pattern was interrupted by John shoving him backwards, away from the brilliant light, back into the darkness, away from him.

“Go- Sherlock. It’s not your time yet.” he yelled, his face flushing red in the way it always did when he was angry. Sherlock shook his head violently.

“No... No” he whispered, over and over as he watched John’s palms lift to his chest, pummelling his body over his heart , pushing him further and further backwards, straining to continue taking the steps as the bonds re-tightened over his body.   
They reached the edge, the point between the light’s edge and the darkness from where Sherlock had come from. John’s face was red; sweat pouring from him, in a way that Sherlock would never have believed you could when dead. He teetered on the edge of darkness, still clutching to John.

“Come back- come back with me” he whispered, burying his face into John’s hair. John sighed and looked back into the light.  
“You know I would, in a heartbeat Sherlock. But-“ he cut himself off, looking at the bonds that were now visible, clenched around his waist and heart, something on the other end pulling him back. Bonds were creeping towards Sherlock and John realized there time was nearly up.

In a single movement John grabbed Sherlock’s face, pressing his lips roughly to his. Sherlock groaned, thankful for feeling the man’s lips against his once more. They felt the same as they did in life, as did the rest of him.

John’s hands snaked around his chest, resting the palms against his heart. He waited for the moment, when Sherlock would relax into his grasp, falling limp against his body weight, and then with no resistant John gave one final push. Sherlock fell, grasping at mid air, screaming John’s name as the darkness consumed him once more.

The last thing he saw in his mind’s eye was John’s smiling face, his hand raised in goodbye for a split second before he walked willingly back into the light. He whispered his name once more, closing his eyes and allowing himself to sink.  
And somewhere, in a hospital bed, with his family and friends around him, did Sherlock Holmes’s heart regain a beat, strong and clear, breaking through the horrible tone of the flat-line. His brother rushed forward, his usual calm demeanour flustered, his suit rumpled and bloodied after the events of the night. He grasped Sherlock’s hand just as the doctor’s lips left Sherlock’s in his frantic impromptu resuscitation. A single mumbled word escaped Sherlock’s lips. It was unmistakably- John.


End file.
